


The Laws Of Sympathetic Magic

by Poe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steeb and Bucket, Story within a Story, Writer Bucky Barnes, Writer's Block, reuploaded!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 13:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15996392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poe/pseuds/Poe
Summary: "So, what are we doing?" Clint pulls up a seat beside Sam, who just rolls his eyes."What we do every Saturday, Barton, we're Bucket Watching," Sam replies, gesturing behind him. Steve lets out a long sigh."Again? Still with the Bucket?" Clint raises an eyebrow, before craning his neck to see what the object of Steve's affections is doing today. Like usual, he's sitting behind his laptop, typing furiously, occasionally pausing to flip through a book he has next to him. He'll frown, then nod, then go back to typing."Always with the Bucket," Riley says, leaning into Sam. "Poor Steve's smitten."Or: - the one about the truly awful coffee shop, the writer who couldn't write, and Steeb and Bucket.





	The Laws Of Sympathetic Magic

                “So, what are we doing?” Clint pulls up a seat beside Sam, who just rolls his eyes.

                “What we do every Saturday, Barton, we’re Bucket Watching.” Sam replies, gesturing behind him. Steve lets out a long sigh.

                “Again? Still with the Bucket?” Clint raises an eyebrow, before craning his neck to see what the object of Steve’s affections is doing today. Like usual, he’s sitting behind his laptop, typing furiously, occasionally pausing to flip through a book he has next to him. He’ll frown, then nod, then go back to typing.

                “Always with the Bucket.” Riley says, leaning into Sam. “Poor Steve’s smitten.”

                “Smitten with the Bucket. I can kinda see why.” Clint nods appraisingly. Steve grumps under his breath jealously.

                “Hey, man, if you’re not going to go talk to him, I will.” Clint makes to get up. Steve grabs his arm and with a surprising amount of strength for a man of his size, pulls Clint back down. “Okay, dude, chill.”

                He’s just so - ” Steve starts.

                “Boring.”

                “Repetitive.”

                “Type-y.”

                “Bookish.”

                “Actually kinda hot if you like that sort of thing – hey, just saying.”

                “He’s perfect.” Steve interjects.

                “His name is Bucket.” Riley points out. Clint had pulled Bucket’s used coffee cup from the trash a few weeks ago. It had been a crowning moment of awesome, and one day, Steve would admit that. Now tall, dark and man-bunned had a name. Albeit a weird one.

                “That’s not his name.” Steve pouts.

                “It was on his coffee cup. Therefore it is law.” Riley says.

                Steve turns his cup around to show Riley. On the side is scribbled the word ‘Steeb’.

                “Huh.” Clint says. It’s best not to ask what is sometimes found on the side of _his_ coffee cup. He suspects the barista doesn’t like him very much. She sort of glares a lot. Maybe that’s just her face.

                “Anyway, Miley, you can’t talk.” Steve says, pointing a finger at Riley.

                “One time I got Miley, one time. At least they didn’t get my secret identity.” Riley grins.

                “Yeah, Hannah Montana, you’re fooling everyone.” Sam pokes his boyfriend in the ribs.

                “Therapist by day, superstar by night. It’s how I do.” Riley laughs easily.

                “Hold up, Bucket’s getting a phone call. These are always good.” Clint says, and they all swivel to watch. There was a time, Steve recalls, when they were more subtle than this.

                Bucket answers in English, but soon switches to a language, that between them, they’ve determined is Russian. The furrow between his brows deepens as he talks, and he runs a hand through his hair, forgetting it’s tied up, loosening strands from the bun. Steve sighs again.

                “You are so done. Like, professionally done.” Riley says to Steve.

                “ _I know._ ” Steve grits out, still staring at Bucket, who is resting his face in one hand as he spits out quick fire Russian. It should not be as attractive as it is. Steve just wants to go over there and massage his shoulders or _something_.

                “I wonder what he’s saying.” Clint ponders, tilting his head as though he’ll magically know Russian if he gets the right angle.

                “Don’t your hearing aids come with a translate module?” Riley asks, and Clint flips him off, before signing something very rude in his direction. They all know enough sign language to wince, but then Clint grins.

                “I got shit insurance, man. Just the regular model.” He says, and they all relax. He hasn’t been Deaf long, and they’re all still adapting. Sometimes the jokes fall into the ‘too soon’ category. Clint’s got a good sense of humour though. Or, a sense of humour anyway. Good might be going too far.

                Sam’s been quiet for a while. He’s watching Steve watch Bucket, watching Riley needle Clint. It’s sort of what he does – observes. It’s what makes him an excellent therapist, or so Steve’s heard. Sam and Riley met in Psychology 101 and it was love at first sight. They live together, work together, Steve envies their relationship something fierce. The closest he’s ever gotten to that was with Peggy in high school, but she’d gone back to England, and he’d been left with little more than memories of her cherry red lips on his.

                Steve’d tell you he’s unattractive, which is untrue. He has the whole earnest hipster thing going on, thick rimmed glasses and hand knitted scarves, cardigans and Converse. He’s kinda short, but people seem to dig it. Steve doesn’t see it though, despite Sam’s insistence. Steve only sees Bucket, and damn, he wishes he had a proper name to put to that face.

                Steve sips his hot chocolate, the coffee here is terrible, he really doesn’t know why they keep coming back, except for the fact that Bucket showed up one Saturday afternoon, looking rumpled and adorable, and Steve fell hard. Since then, there’s been the weekly Bucket Watch, and Bucket is observed, like a rare specimen, from a distance. It’s been going on too long now for Steve to casually walk up and introduce himself. He’s pretty sure Bucket is both aware of them and actively ignoring them, Riley and Clint aren’t exactly quiet. Clint fishing Bucket’s cup out of the trash was the most proactive thing any of them have done about the situation, which pretty much sums it up. It’s stalking in the laziest and most pathetic terms only. Steve takes a moment to head desk the table.

                Whilst his forehead is sticking to the table, he doesn’t see Bucket pause his conversation, give him an unreadable look, and then smile to himself. Which is a shame.

                Sam pats Steve on the back. Steve groans to himself. It’s all he can do. The situation is hopeless. Steve is hopeless.

                “Your bangs are covered in sugar. You’ll get ants.” Clint says unhelpfully. Steve groans again, moving a hand grudgingly through his hair, which, yes, is gritty with sugar.

                “Steve Rogers: human disaster.” Riley laughs.

                “You can put it on my tombstone. Me in my spinster’s grave. Alone.” Steve mutters.

                “Dark, man. Like, hella dark.” Riley says.

                “You say ‘hella’ now?” Sam asks. “Why am I dating you?”

                “Many scholars have asked, and all have failed to find a satisfactory answer.” Steve hears Riley reply, imagining the grin on his face.

                “You’re not going to die alone, Steve.” Clint says kindly.

                Then: “You’re probably going to get at least three cats. You can make like an Ancient Egyptian and have them buried with you.”

                Steve raises his middle finger and points it in Clint’s direction. His head is sticky. He should get up. But head desking is so comforting. Nothing can hurt you when you’re head desking. The world is dark, peaceful. If not particularly quiet.

                “Bucket’s off the phone!” Clint says, ignoring Steve. Steve peeks up through his bangs. Bucket is indeed off the phone, and is staring off into space, frowning. Steve wonders what he’s frowning about. What words it’d take to ease that frown from his features. Steve wants to press a kiss to the crease at the top of Bucket’s nose and tell him everything’s going to be okay. Steve wants – Steve wants a lot. But he’d settle for literally anything.

                He sits up. Reaches for his hot chocolate, which could now be described more accurately as room temperature. He gulps it back anyway. It’s something to do.

                “Bucket’s typing again. Always with the typing. Type, type, type. Could drive a person mad.” Riley comments. Steve looks over. Bucket is indeed typing again. He types fast, not looking at the keyboard, eyes focused intently on the screen in front of him. If Steve didn’t find him so attractive, he’d think coming to a coffee shop (with undrinkable coffee) and typing for hours on end was a wee bit pretentious.

                “So what do we think he’s typing?” Clint asks the group.

                “It’s not porn. We vetoed porn.” Riley says.

                “Nobody writes porn in a coffee shop.” Sam agrees.

                “I would.” Clint argues.

                “You are not a normal human being. _Normal_ human beings don’t write porn in coffee shops. They have a modicum of shame.” Sam replies.

                “I have a modi-whazzit of shame. I’m just saying, I bet tons of people write porn in coffee shops. Drinking their Starbucks, writing absolute filth.” Clint shrugs. Steve can’t help but agree with him, he reckons lots of people probably do write porn in coffee shops. But he doesn’t think Bucket is one of them. Surely you write porn with a blank expression, and less reference materials. Bucket is always referencing at least one other book. What type of porn requires citations?

                “Not porn.” Sam says. “Maybe he’s at college? Writing his thesis?”

                “It’d have to be the world’s longest thesis. How long have we been coming here?” Riley asks.

                “Too long.” Clint says, and they all nod in agreement. Truly, truly awful coffee. If it wasn’t for the hot chocolates, they’d be on bottled water.

                “So, porn, or the world’s longest thesis. Or a thesis on porn.” Clint seems to be thinking aloud.

                “You didn’t go to college, did you?” Riley asides.

                “Some people are naturally intelligent, they don’t need your fancy classroom learning.” Clint replies, looking smug.

                “You wound me.” Riley says.

                 “My aim in life.” Clint smiles.

                “I remember when we were young and had lives. When we didn’t spend all Saturday afternoon watching Steve tie himself in knots over his crush. Beautiful days, halcyon even. I miss those days.” Sam comments, mainly to himself.

                “I seem to recall a lot of Mario Kart and eating cereal straight out of the box, to be honest, Sammy.” Riley offers.

                “Details.” Sam says, waving a hand. “Mere details.”

                “You don’t have to come here with me every Saturday, you choose to do it. Because you enjoy mocking me.” Steve points out.

                “This is true.” Sam says.

                “Yep.” Riley agrees.

                “The mocking is fun.” Clint confirms.

                “So, basically, fuck you all.” Steve says calmly, before grinning despite himself.

                “Only action you’d be getting.” Riley says, and then snorts with laughter.

                “Harsh, man.” Clint says between giggles.

                Steve considers head desking again.

 

*

 

                Bucky watches the blond boy from behind his laptop screen. For as long as Bucky has been coming in this dreadful hole in the wall coffee shop, so has he, and he and his friends are always amusing to watch. They seem to have a lot of fun. Maybe a little at Bucky’s expense, he isn’t quite sure. There’s a lot of gesturing at him and not so subtle watching of him, which is really quite distracting when you’re trying to write your second novel. He’s left it too long since writing the first one (procrastination, the writer’s one true friend and best enemy) and has to keep skipping back to the first book to check details. Stupid things, like hair colour or the way a certain character talks. And because, in his infinite wisdom, he’d decided to write a period piece (does World War II count as period? Historical? Whatever) there was an alarming amount of fact checking to be done. He sets his fingers on the keyboard again, and tries to write the same scene once more. He can’t quite reach it, it was at the tip of his brain, the words so close to his fingertips, but he couldn’t make it real. It is the most frustrating thing.

                Across the shop, the blond boy head desks again. He seems to do that a lot. Bucky smiles to himself. He can’t help it. The blond boy was sort of adorable. His friends were all louder and brasher than he was, he seemed to blush at half the things they said, and he blushes _beautifully_ , but distractingly.

                Bucky scrolls back up through what he’s written so far. It’s all terrible, contrived, cliché, dross of the highest order. He should quit writing and see if the coffee shop is hiring. Maybe he could do something about the coffee. Like, subtly, suggest they get a new machine. Or clean out the old one. God only knows what they’ve got growing in there, but Bucky suspects at one stage the machine will become sentient. And then there’d be trouble.

                This isn’t helping. Daydreaming about sentient coffee machines is unhelpful. Daydreaming about cute blond boys isn’t helpful. Bucky’s half tempted to just go over there and ask him out. Just to get the rejection over and done with. Then maybe he could focus. But no, as he watches, the group crack up laughing again and Bucky knows he could never approach them. He’s just not a people person.

                The thing about writing is, and he’s heard it said before, he didn’t come up with it, writing is wanting to tell a story but not wanting to say it aloud. It’s being a court jester, but for introverts. It’s the weirdest thing, and he loves it.

                Well. He loves having written. He hates writing. When he’s in the zone and the words are flowing, he loves it then. When he’s blocked, by blond boys or villainous coffee machines (because surely a sentient coffee machine wouldn’t use its powers for good) or whatever, it’s the hardest thing in the word. Every word feels like it’s being torn from him, and he aches with it. It doesn’t help that he’s stuck in angst-ville, population: one, currently. His characters wouldn’t smile if you paid them. There’s an awful lot of pining going on. Missed glances and long heavy sighs. It’s hopeless. If they’d just communicate, they’d realise how in love they were and work it out. But instead they’re in the middle of a war zone, and each day could be their last, and they’re barely acknowledging each other. Writing page after page of this could get a guy down. Bucky just wants to skip to the kissing. Kissing he can write. Well, probably. His first novel was mostly angst too. God, when did he become so angsty? Why on earth did people buy it? Why on earth, seriously, did they leave it good reviews?

                And yet they did. By the dozens and then by the hundreds. Everyone wants to know what happens to Matthew and Leo next. Yep, gay and in the army, during one of the bloodiest wars in history. He’s walking that cliché. So sue him.

                He’d grown up with his mom reading the family saga series, and being curious and bored one day, he’d started reading them too. And never really stopped. He found the war fascinating, if grim, and loved the idea of human spirit prevailing. Of love prevailing against all odds. So call him an old romantic. He’s been called worse.

                He’s writing without really thinking, moving his fingers across the keyboard as if they have a mind of their own. He needs to get this chapter done, or his agent will have his balls. He really wishes he was exaggerating there. Natalia is brutal, honest in a way that can seem cruel at times, and so very, very Russian. She knows he was brought up in Russia, so refuses to speak English unless absolutely necessary, which really throws him off trying to write a scene. It would be very difficult to explain why two American soldiers suddenly started spouting twenty first century Russian in the middle of the mess. But he enjoys speaking his mother tongue, enjoys the way it rolls off his tongue more easily than English does sometimes. His Russian isn’t perfect, he moved to the States when he was twelve and fought desperately to lose the accent and perfect his English, leaving himself with an odd, barely there something accent which is impossible to pin down, and a brain that’ll sometimes throw in the odd Russian word into a perfectly ordinary English sentence, leaving him temporarily muted. It’s frustrating.

                Maybe a psychiatrist would suggest the reason he has trouble making his characters talk to one another is because he sometimes has difficulty talking to people. Deep. Freudian. Tell me, does this cigar remind you of a penis? He chuckles to himself, before catching himself and checking his expression. The blond boy is looking at him again. Bucky looks back through his eyelashes, subtle enough that the blond can’t tell he’s looking. The dark skinned man next to the blond boy ruffles his hair, and the blond boy glowers. His face is an array of emotions, and Bucky wishes he could write them all.

                He’s tried giving a name to the blond boy, but nothing seems to suit. Chris? No. Tom? No. Sam? No. It’s got to be something traditional, he just has that vibe about him. Something shortened from something longer. And there’s got to be a middle name hidden away in there somewhere too.

                As if Bucky can talk about middle names. James Buchanan Barnes falls off the tongue like an anvil hitting the ground at speed. So, Bucky, then, the sort of name you’d give your pet dog, but maybe not your human child. It’s his sister’s fault, she came up with it. And his sister’s word is pretty close to gospel. What she says, goes. So Bucky Barnes, or James B. Barnes if you’re getting into book publishing territory. It’s handy, having two names, because it allows him a sense of freedom other authors might not have. Not that he’d really know, he doesn’t really hang out in writer cliques. _Are_ there writer cliques? It being a solitary job, he kinda doubts it.

                That’s why he decided to write in a coffee shop. Sitting in front of his laptop at home, staring at the blank Word document was driving him insane. At least here he has the ambience, the potential (and only the potential, sadly) for human contact. And if the only words he speaks are “One hot chocolate please, for Bucky” and “Thank you” then yeah, he could do better, but what’s a guy to do? He’s got a deadline. A looming deadline. And characters that won’t communicate.

                Some of the characters are communicating. A group of soldiers have gathered around Matthew and are quietly teasing him, asking him if he has a girl back home. Leo is watching this with barely concealed longing, pretending to write a letter to his ma, but really just doodling. How life influences art.

                Something must be done, it really must. It can’t go on like this. Either he finds a new coffee shop (not an option, though very tempting) or he makes a move on the blond boy. And then maybe his characters will make moves of their own. He doesn’t envy them that decision. He’s immensely thankful he isn’t in the middle of a war zone, instead just a really, atrociously bad coffee shop. He really cannot state that enough. The coffee is dire.

                There’s one thing for it. He’s read enough meet cutes to know how it goes. He has a month to finish the story, and he can’t leave it a minute longer. Opening his first novel (annotated, highlighted, dog eared as it is) he writes his phone number inside the front cover. Then, because that might appear too obvious, he adds: _If found, please text._

                Now he just has to walk past the blond, drop the book, and hope. Rolling his eyes at his own behaviour, he saves the document, copies it over to his Dropbox, closes his laptop, and gathers his books precariously enough in his arms so that the book will fall. He leaves his coffee cup where it is. It says ‘Bucket’. It always says ‘Bucket’. They’ve never gotten his name right.

                _Okay, stand up. Stand up, come on, okay, good. Now walk past his table. Yes, he’s looking at you, watch that waitress, heaven help the person who actually eats here, do they have a death wish? Okay, and drop the book, now._

                The book falls from his arms and he pretends not to notice as it lands at the blond’s feet. He hurries out of the coffee shop and around the corner, before squatting in an alleyway and trying not to hyperventilate. It’s in the hands of fate now. He’s done the best he could. And to think Natalia says ‘communication is key’. What does Natalia know?

 

*

 

                Bucket drops the book right at Steve’s feet. If Steve didn’t know better, he’d say it was planned. He sits frozen for a moment, watching the other man leaving the shop, before gathering his wits (and the book) and chasing out of the shop and after him.

                To find a street full of people, but none of them Bucket. Sighing, he turns and goes back inside.

                “You find your boy?” Sam asks. Steve shakes his head.

                “Well, you tried, and you failed miserably. You know the lesson here?” Riley asks.

                “Never try.” Steve says.

                “Damn right.” Clint says, punching Steve on the arm with more force than is strictly necessary.

                “Ow.” Steve says.

                “I’ll kiss it better?” Clint wiggles his tongue at Steve. Steve recoils, pretending to be horrified.

                “No, thanks. I’m saving myself for Bucket.” Steve says tartly.

                “Poor Bucket. There is a whirlwind of sexual repression headed his way one of these days.” Riley laughs. Sam elbows him.

                “Hey, I resemble that remark.” Steve says, trying not to grin. And then he sighs, dropping the book from one hand to the other. Bucket probably needs this book. The next time Steve sees him, he’ll give him the book back. Wordlessly. Possibly via Clint or Sam or Riley. No, they’d never go for it. They’d make him do it. Oh, fuck.

 

*

 

                A week passes, and Bucky all but leaps on his phone every time it vibrates with a new message. Each time, he has to stop himself from violently throwing it across the room with disappointment. It’s never the blond boy. It’s always his sister, or his mom, or Natalia asking him what the fuck he thinks he’s playing at and if he doesn’t get the next chapter to her soon she’ll be sharpening something called a ‘burdizzo’ and after Googling that he’d had to lie down for a while. He very much did not want to be castrated.

                And yet, the great novel refuses to write itself. Holed up surrounded by tasty treats, wrapped in his comforter, Bucky Barnes sits in front of his laptop in his Ikea ceiling mounted swingy chair (a guy has to have some luxuries, okay?) and pouted. And it’s a shame nobody was around to see it, because he knew he looks good pouting. He has the mouth for it. Smirking, he imagines the blond boy sitting across from him, watching him pout. Which, in fairness, the blond boy had probably done countless times already. Bucky eats an oreo. He sucks his fingers clean, rests them against the orientation bumps on his keyboard. Gets ready to write. Panics. Eats another oreo. So it goes.

                Okay. Writing. Come on Barnes, you’ve got this. Writing is your job. Your career. You make literal money out of it. It pays your rent. So what’s stopping you?

                “ _Matthew watched Leo out of the corner of his eye. He always looked good, whether he was covered in mud, blood or clean as a whistle. Not that any one of them could claim to be clean as a whistle these days. Matthew imagined he’d still be eking grime from beneath his toe nails well into his nineties. If he lived that long._

_This war, this heartless, endless war. He knew he was fighting the good fight, knew that he had to stand up against Hitler and his army of Nazis, knew he was doing his duty for the good of the human race. But what he’d give, what he’d give, in this moment, to be walking along a Brooklyn street, to smell the cocktail of city life, rather than the endless parade of almost unearthly scents. Mud and death. You might not think death had a smell, but it did. It lingered in the air taunting the survivors. Each man had smelt it. Each man would deny it. It didn’t smell of decay, or anything so simple. It smelt somehow cleaner and more awful than that. And it followed him._

_He knew he wouldn’t get out of this war alive. He’d never live to trace the curve of Leo’s jaw with his tongue. Oh, he was well past denial at this stage. He may make noises about a girl back home, but it was Leo he wanted. And Leo he could never, ever have._

_Leo seemed to have a sixth sense for when Matthew was thinking about him, because he looked over. Their eyes locked, before Matthew ducked his head and looked away. To be born in a different time, a different place, maybe things would be different. Easier. Maybe what he felt for Leo would be acceptable. He’d heard of places, parts of cities, where being an invert was not so frowned upon. To live such a life! To live with another man, to love another man. It was almost beyond fathoming. And yet his mind wandered there all too often._

_There had been a moment, he was sure of it, one night several months ago, electricity sparking  in the air after a particularly bloody brawl, to call it a battle would be too elegant. And Leo had looked at him then and Matthew had almost allowed himself to hope. But no. He would die on these fields, in these boots, another soldier lost to the cause. Never knowing Leo’s touch. And sometimes, you know what? He could almost accept that.”_

Wow, okay, ease back the angst there a bit, Barnes. Obviously the war is not all sunshine and roses, but there’s gotta be a little light. And there would be. He was sure of it. His characters just weren’t playing the game.

                His phone vibrates under his thigh and he near jumps out of his skin. He reaches for it and wakes it up. Becca. His sister. He sighs (he’s been doing that a lot lately, it’s become something of a habit) and half-heartedly replies to her message before flinging his phone back down beside him again. Not that he doesn’t love his sister, but there’s one message he’s waiting for. The same way Matthew is looking for a sign. He knows Matthew will know it when he sees it. He’s not so sure about himself.

                Snuggling further into his comforter, he places his laptop on the floor and lets himself be cocooned in his odd swinging chair. It’s almost like a womb, a safe place to be, the light softer and less harsh. He wrote most of his first novel in much the same position, smarting from a fierce breakup and angry at the world. Now he was just moping. It was not conducive to writing.

 

*

 

                “And you haven’t even read it?” Sam asks, incredulous, eying up the book Steve’s holding. The plan is, the plan is to give it back to Bucket today. Somehow. Without stuttering, mumbling or throwing up (the last one, he hopes, is not a possibility, but he does not trust his stomach right now). Bucket hasn’t arrived yet, he’s unusually late, and Steve feels a pang of loss. What if he’s decided to go somewhere else? What if he needed his book really badly and Steve being too slow to catch him had spiralled into a series of unfortunate events leading to Bucket being imprisoned somewhere far from Steve’s reach? Or something. Probably he was just late.

                “Of course I didn’t read it!” Steve tunes back into the conversation. “It’s not my book.”

                “It’s just a book, Stevie. It’s not like he wrote the damn thing.” Sam says shortly, pointing at the spine of the book. It’s creased and barely legible, but it still says ‘James B. Barnes’ and very definitely not ‘Bucket’. There’s no way to get Bucket from James. Which is a sentence Steve never thought he’d hear himself think.

                Okay, he’ll admit he skimmed the blurb. The book was an almost love story between two soldiers in the middle of World War II. Which had made Steve want to read the book, but he hadn’t. A man doesn’t going around reading another man’s literature. There were rules. Probably.

                “Sam.” Steve says, an idea hitting him so hard over the head he’s almost winded.

                “Steve.” Sam replies, deadpan.

                “I need a post it note.” Steve continues.

                “A post it note.” Sam says, his voice steady, betraying nothing.

                “For the book.” Steve says.

                “For the book.” Sam says, delivery dry.

                “Is there an echo in here?” Riley asks, sitting down beside Sam and throwing an arm around Sam’s shoulders easily. Clint isn’t here yet, so it’s just the three of them. Sam and Steve are sharing tentative sips of a strawberry milkshake between them, which caused Riley to raise an eyebrow (“you poaching my boy, Rogers?”).

                “I can’t decide what it tastes like, but it definitely isn’t strawberry. Here, you try.” Sam says, offering the drink to Riley. “As for your book, why does it need a post it note?” He asks Steve.

                Riley takes a sip of the drink, unconcerned about sharing spit with Steve. Theirs is a friendship utterly unafraid of bodily fluids.

                “It’s like drinking yogurt, but not in a good way?” Riley tries.

                “Like if yogurt was stringier. And tasted kinda off. Which is weird, considering that yogurt, by its very nature, is off.” Sam says.

                Steve clears his throat.

                “Right. White boy problems to deal with. Sorry, Steve. You were saying, your book needs a post it note.” Sam says.

                “One: it’s not my book. Two: I thought maybe I could, like, write on it and give it back to him and, you know, ask him out a little bit?” Steve mumbles. Great, now he’s mumbling, and Bucket isn’t even here yet.

                “Possession is nine tenths of the law.” Riley says. Sam pinches his arm. “Ow.”

                “You’re actually going to ask him out?” Sam asks Steve.

                “A little bit. I said a little bit.” Steve defends himself.

                “Who’s asking who out a little bit?” Clint arrives, and throws himself down besides Steve, managing to take up most of Steve’s seat.

                “Oh, so your hearing is fine when you want to earwig, but when I ask you to pass the remote, you’re deaf as a post. Convenient.” Sam asides.

                “Cheap batteries. Come on, man, spill. You’re asking Bucket out?” Clint leans further towards Steve, like an over eager Labrador.

                “I am asking Bucket out.” Steve says, resigned to his fate. He should be happier about it, it could potentially be a good fate. Every sign points to Bucket being into guys (how many straight guys read World War II dramas about gay guys?) but is he into Steve-shaped guys? All signs point to ‘Ask Again Later’, which is really unhelpful. Clint whoops in Steve’s ear, too loud, before wrapping his arms around Steve and squeezing tight. “My little Stevie, all grown up, getting a prom date. Remember, peer pressure is a real thing. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

                “What the – no. Mostly with the no. I’m literally just going to ask if he wants coffee. On second thoughts, that’s like asking someone if they’d like Ebola. I’ll ask him if he wants hot chocolate sometime. Without you guys watching.” He pre-empts.

                “Aw, Steve.” Clint says.

                Steve ignores him.

                “Riley, how did you ask Sam out?” Steve wriggles out of Clint’s grasp and focuses on Riley. Sam chuckles. This feels like something Steve should know, he wonders why he doesn’t.

                “I asked him if he wanted a blowjob.” Riley replies, easy as you like. Ah, there it is. Steve had mentally repressed it. He wonders what else he’s mentally repressed since beginning to hang out with the other three.

                “Argh.” He says eloquently. He almost doesn’t notice the body brushing past him until he sees who it is. Bucket. His hair is down today, and he hasn’t shaved. He looks like an avenging angel. He’s even wearing a leather jacket.

                “Double argh.” Steve says. Because he is good at speaking.

                “I think I need to go buy post its. This could get interesting.” Sam says, shrugging Riley’s arm off his shoulders. He kisses Riley on the cheek, pulling away before Riley can turn the kiss filthy and sprints off.

                “Get a pen too!” Clint calls. Steve shoots him a look. “Oh come on, as if you have a pen on you.” Clint points out. Okay. Score one to Clint. Sam looks back, and makes the okay sign with his fingers, and then he’s gone. Riley shoves the strawberry milkshake in Clint’s direction.

                “Here, try this.” He says.

 

*

 

                Bucky orders, and takes his seat, but not before noticing one salient piece of information. Blond boy had Bucky’s book in his hands. Gently passing it back and forth like it was something precious. Had he not opened it at all? Was that why he hadn’t texted? Was he that protective of Bucky’s privacy?

                The dark-skinned guy gets up and waves and leaves and the group settles. The blond boy is steadfastly not looking at Bucky, which makes a change. The other two, both with dirty dishwater coloured hair and leering grins, _are_ looking at Bucky. Bucky opens his laptop and hides behind it. He takes a sip of his hot chocolate and opens his Word document.

                He’s made some progress, but the pining continues unabated. As he is now writing from experience, he wonders if he’s being too self-indulgent. Oh yes, let it never be said Bucky Barnes isn’t self-aware.

                The trio at the other table are passing around a drink, taking it in turns to take a sip and grimacing after each one. They seem to be rating it, and heaven help them. Bucky’s pretty sure he’s got the dynamics of the group sorted, two of them are dating, and two of them are single, or at least don’t show up with dates. Blond boy is single. Hopefully.

                Blond boy is tracing the embossed letters on the front cover of the book. The title, not Bucky’s choosing, was Natalia’s work, ‘Brothers In Arms’. Just in case his book couldn’t be any more cliché than it already was. The sequel is going to be called ‘Brothers At War’, as far as he’s concerned, though he should probably lose the ‘brothers’ prefix for when things actually heat up and Matthew and Leo pull their heads out of their asses and talk to each other.

                Bucky has their future all planned out – returning from the war, heroes, to a small rural farm house with a few chickens and neighbours that don’t ask too many questions. Theirs will be a quiet life, but after the horror of war it’s the best he can give them.

                The dark-skinned man returns, triumphant, and plonks himself down beside his boyfriend, brandishing a paper bag at the blond boy. The boy takes it, and blushes. What on earth could be in there?

                It strikes Bucky now, that he always thinks of the blond boy as a boy, rather than a man. Not in a creepy way, but because he’s short and kinda petite and kinda adorable. There are many, many things Bucky wants to do to him, but he’s found that after the initial hit of lust, his fantasies tend to revolve around wrapping a blanket around the pair of them and eating soup. He gets the feeling the blond boy is never truly warm (why he thinks that, he doesn’t know – maybe it’s the cardigans) and he wants him to be warm. Another part of him wants to see what it takes to make him blush (not much, he’s gathered so far, either that or his friends have filthy mouths). But mostly, he wants to talk to him, to see how he speaks and to learn about him. Bucky has a writer’s disposition towards words, he uses them to help people get to know his characters, and at the same time, to get to know other people. Words are a way of crawling under someone’s skin and seeing what makes them tick. Words can be whispered or shouted and in either case can hold the same value. Words are magnificent. Bucky wants to hear the blond boy’s words.

                Bucky watches as the blond boy removes the contents of the bag and puts them on the table. Post it notes and a packet of pens? He watches as the blond boy tries to tear open the plastic of the pen packet, before handing it to his single friend, who rips it open with his teeth. Pens fly everywhere, raining down like tiny missiles. The blond boy scowls and peeks up at Bucky, before ducking and nearly braining himself on the table ledge picking a pen up from the floor.

 

*

 

                “Nice one, Clint.” Riley says, laughing at his friend, who is gathering pens up from where they’ve fallen around the table. “Real smooth.”

                Steve is bright red. He knows Bucket saw. What he must think of them. Is it too late to stop being friends with these guys? Probably. They know all his secrets. Or most of them. Not that he really has many secrets. But sometimes they like to get him drunk just to see if he’s hiding anything new away from them. He’s such a lightweight he falls for it every time. Which leads to vomiting and then crying besides the bathtub, which is just so, so poised.

                Now, his deepest, darkest secret is Bucket, which isn’t a secret at all. It’s an open secret. A secret that not only dares speak its name, but if it were up to Clint or Riley, would be shouted from the rooftops. Steve’s thankful for Sam. He mediates. Without Sam, it’d be a clusterfuck.

                Steve tears open the post it notes and sticks the top one to the cover of Bucket’s book. He smooths it down, before realising he’s got to figure out what to write on it. He said he’d ask Bucket out, and he’s going to. Just. How? How do people do this? Was he absent from school the day they taught this?

                “Do. You. Want. A. Blowjob. It’s five words. You can do it, Stevie.” Riley leans across the table.

                “I’m not writing that.” Steve replies.

                “You gotta write something.” Clint says.

                “So, hey, I’ve been stalking you for a while, and I’d like to make it official, will you go out with me?” Sam offers.

                “Not. Helpful.” Steve grinds out.

                “I got it!” Sam snatches the pen, and the book along with it. He scribbles something down on the post it note. Steve snatches it back when he’s done. It’s actually… perfect.

                It says ‘Tell me a story?’ and then Steve’s mobile number. Presuming Bucket is actually a writer, it’s ideal.

                “My boy’s a genius.” Riley says, snuggling up to Sam.

                “Eh.” Clint waves his hand in the air, unsure. “I’d’ve gone blowjob.”

                “Our Stevie here isn’t easy.” Riley says. And then they all chorus:

                “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” Because they are twenty first century men, and quite frankly, slut shaming is beneath them.

                Very little is beneath them, but that is one of the things.

                Offering blowjobs to strangers is not beneath them.

                Steve’s mind boggles, sometimes.

                “How do I get it from here to - ” He gestures in what he thinks is a subtle manner in Bucket’s direction. Sam sighs. It must be catching.

                “You can’t just walk over there and give it to him?” Sam asks.

                “No.” Steve says certainly.

                “Really? Like, really really?” Sam asks, not quite frustrated. He’s normally very understanding of Steve’s anxiety issues, but sometimes. Sometimes a guy can do without it.

                “Really. My legs have gone all wobbly.” Steve says.

                Clint kicks him.

                “Ow. What the hell?” Steve glares at Clint.

                “They feel pretty solid to me.” Clint shrugs.

                “Okay, what you’re going to do,” Riley starts. Everyone tenses. This could go one of two ways. “Is you’re going to go over to the counter and order their least offensive muffin, and ask it to be sent over to Bucket with the book. On your behalf. You should probably mention your name.”

                Okay, that could have been worse. Everyone breathes a sign of relief.

                “What? I can have good ideas!” Riley protests. “I’m like Casanova.”

                “You’re lucky you’re pretty.” Sam says.

                “Now my feelings are hurt. Sort of.” Riley pouts. Sam leans over and kisses him full on the lips. “White boys.” He says to himself.

                Steve is trying very hard to catch his breath on the opposite side of the table. The book is in his hand, and he has a plan. He’s the man with the plan. And it’s not a bad plan. As far as plans go, it’s almost a good one.

                “You can do it.” Sam encourages. “We can even leave straight after if you don’t want to hang around for his response.” Sam starts gathering their belongings together. Steve is so, so thankful for Sam Wilson in that moment.

                “Okay. I’m gonna do it.” He stands carefully, his legs barely taking his weight, and makes his way over to the counter. Thankfully, there’s no queue. He orders the muffin, and there’s no way to be subtle as he points out that he wants it sent over to Bucket’s table. Thankfully, Bucket seems immersed in whatever he’s typing. He’s not looking at Steve.

                The waitress gives Steve a look, like she’s not paid enough for this, so Steve shoves a five dollar bill in the tip jar. She raises an eyebrow. He shoves in another five dollars. She nods, and takes the book from him, and selects a double chocolate chip muffin. She leaves the counter, and Steve runs for it, not looking back, not wanting to see Bucket receive the book. His heart’s beating so fast he might actually pass out, and his vision is scudding. He meets up with Sam and the guys outside, and Sam takes his shoulders and helps him count his breaths until the world has stopped spinning.

                “Well. All in all, we can call that a success.” Riley comments.

                “I had a panic attack.” Steve says quietly.

                “Yeah, but he didn’t _see_ you have the panic attack. Points for discretion.” Clint says.

                “There’s nothing wrong with having a panic attack. Now, let’s get you home and your phone charged up. Wouldn’t want to be missing any texts now, would you?” Sam says calmly, and loops his arm around Steve’s, steading him so he can walk. Riley shrugs, before looping his arm through Clint’s. Clint pretends to swoon. They make their way slowly down the street, Steve never more aware of his phone in his pocket.

 

*

 

                Something is unceremoniously dumped onto Bucky’s table, and then followed by a double chocolate chip muffin.

                “Courtesy of Steeb,” says the waitress, and saunters off.

                Bucky takes a moment, before looking down at the object that has been almost thrown at him. It’s his book. And it has a pink post it note on the front.

                Bucky reads it. Then reads it again. Smooths it out, tracing the letters with his fingertips, and reads it again. Reads it under his breath. He has the blond boy’s number. Or it’s a cruel joke. But he doubts blond boy would be so cruel. Blond boy is perfect, after all.

                ‘Steeb’ though? Is that what the waitress said? Did she mean Steve, or is it a rule in these places that nobody gets called by their real name? Steve. Steven. It fits him. Bucky and Steve. Steve and Bucky. It works, it really does.

                Okay. Calm down. Breathe.

                Bucky fishes out his phone from his pocket and programs in the number. He saves it under ‘Steeb’ because it’s sort of adorable. He wonders what Steeb calls him.

                This, of course, means Bucky has to take the first step. Which he kinda thought he’d already done, by giving Steeb his number. But obviously, Steeb was a man of virtue and hadn’t read Bucky’s book. But he had asked Bucky to write him a story. What did that mean? Besides the obvious, of course, that Steeb had noticed Bucky writing a lot. Had he guessed Bucky was the author of the book? Impossible. Nobody gets Bucky from James.

                So. He has to tell Steeb a story. And it has to be a good one.

                He opens a new Word document, and starts typing out ideas. He doesn’t want to send anything until he’s absolutely sure it’s the _right_ thing to send.

                How _do_ you woo the boy you’ve been watching for more weeks than you can count?

 

*

 

                Steve is checking his cats on Neko Atsume when the text comes through. He almost drops his phone. Okay, he does drop his phone, and then curses, but thankfully the screen is undamaged. He picks his phone up, shakes the clump of dust off it (he should really hoover at some stage. If he had a hoover) and takes a deep breath before swiping the text open. It’s an iMessage, which works for Steve, because hey, free messages. His eyes struggle to focus on the words in front of him. He takes another deep breath, before diving in.

                _“Once upon a time (don’t all the best stories start that way?) there was a boy. Not just any boy though. He had a magical power, you see. His smiles powered the city. His blushes made the lights flicker. Every happy thought warmed his surroundings like a log fire. He was a human power plant, powered by love and good wishes. Oftentimes, people wouldn’t believe that this small bundle of human could contain so much power, but they were soon won over. People would travel from far and wide to be in his presence, but the boy shrunk away from the attention. He had close friends, sure, but he didn’t like the attention his powers brought with them. He just wanted to be loved for who he was, he wanted someone who understood him._

_Now, let me tell you about the boy who could see the boy with the gifts for who he really was. Who saw how shy and kind and beautiful the boy was. Who watched him laugh and felt that swell of joy in his chest and knew it wasn’t just the boy’s powers putting it there. If the boy was a power plant, then this other boy was a conductor, amplified by the boy._

_And for a long time, neither knew the other existed._

_Until they did._

_They blew out an entire city block’s electricity when they met. When their hands touched, sparks flew. And the boy with the gifts knew he wasn’t alone. And the other boy? He felt like he was on fire, utterly in the grip of the boy with blond hair and the bluest eyes. But he was the one who couldn’t let go._

_But that was okay, because the blond boy didn’t want to let go either._

_When they kissed, the city’s electricity grid blew and its residents knew darkness for the first time in twenty five years. But in the darkness, two boys glowed together. Electric and alive. – Bucky”_

                Steve scrolls up and reads it again. And again, and again, until the story seems burned onto his brain. Bucket. Bucky. Bucky has written a story for him. Was the electric boy Steve? Was the other boy Bucky? Did Bucky want to kiss him? Did he believe they could blow out an entire city’s electrical grid? That was… wow. Steve sighs, a different sigh to usual. He bites his lip, worrying it with his front teeth. The skin there is chapped and sore. Steve must have gone through a dozen chap sticks, losing each one after a couple of applications. Now, though, he was worried about kissing Bucky.

                Bucky. Not Bucket. The name slides into place in his head, and he smiles. Of course the other man is called Bucky. It’s his name. Of course it is.

                And he has written Steve a story.

 

*

 

                **Steeb:** _Wow._

**Steeb:** _I mean, I should probably write something more substantial than that. But mostly just wow._

Bucky’s phone buzzes twice. Steeb has replied to his story. Bucky’s fingers ache from typing it out carefully on the touchpad, and then carefully combing through for typos. Finally, he’d sent it and hoped for the best.

                He takes Steeb’s response as a good sign. His phone buzzes again.

                **Steeb:** _I finally know your name now._

Bucky grins. He knows he should reply, but he’s too giddy. Steeb liked his story!

                _Okay, you’re a grown man, Barnes. Just be cool._

                **Bucky:** _What were you calling me before?_

**Steeb:** _You’ll laugh._

**Bucky:** _I promise not to._

**Steeb:** _Don’t make promises you can’t keep._

**Bucky:** _Is it that bad?_

**Steeb:** _No, just silly._

**Bucky:** _Come on, Steeb, tell me. Please?_

**Steeb:** _Steeb?_

**Bucky:** _I know you’re probably called Steve, but that’s what the waitress said your name was._

**Steeb:** _She doesn’t like us. Not since Clint insulted her coffee to her face._

**Bucky:** _In fairness, it is terrible. Which one of your friends is Clint?_

**Steeb:** _The one who wears a lot of purple. And Riley is the one who insists on wearing racer backs even in the winter. The really low cut ones? Everyone has seen his nipples. It’s kinda embarrassing. And Sam is the only sane one. And I’m Steve. Not Steeb. And you’re not Bucket._

**Bucky:** _Bucket? You were calling me Bucket?_

**Steeb:** _…_

**Bucky:** _How did you even find out I was called Bucket?_

**Steeb:** _Clint may have stalked your coffee cup a little. I promise we’re harmless, really._

**Bucky:** _He… stalked my coffee cup?_

**Steeb:** _Stalked it all the way out of the trash._

**Bucky:** _Gotcha. So, Bucket, eh? Does Bucky suit me better or are you going to keep calling me Bucket? Because that could get awkward._

_**…**_

                Steeb doesn’t reply immediately. Bucky wonders if he’s been too forward. He barely knows the guy after all.

                **Steeb:** _I think Bucky suits you. It’s really unusual. And you’re really unusual._

**Bucky:** _I’m not unusual. I just have a silly name._

_**…**_

**Steeb:** _You’re like nobody I’ve ever seen before._

**Steeb:** _Oh god, pretend I didn’t send that. I meant to delete it._

Bucky is doing internal happy dances. Steeb is adorable. And Bucky would bet all the money he has that he’s blushing right now.

                **Bucky:** _My real name is James, if it helps any. And I’m sure you’ve seen a dozen people who look just like me today alone. Brooklyn’s a big place._

He knows he’s pushing it, but he can’t help it. He has to know. Whether he means as much to Steeb as Steeb means to him.

                **_…_**

The ellipsis dances, mocking him. Finally, his phone buzzes.

                **Steeb:** _Without meaning to sound creepy, you’re kinda one of a kind. Why else would I keep going back to that hell hole of a coffee shop?_

**Steeb:** _Also you don’t look like a James._

**Steeb:** _Holy shit, you’re not James B. Barnes are you? As in, the author of the book you dropped?_

**Steeb:** _Pretend I was cooler about it than that, but I’ve never met a published author before._

**Bucky:** _That’s me. I guess that confirms one theory. You didn’t read the book. My photo’s on the back flap._

**Bucky:** _Hell, my phone number’s on the front page._

_**…**_

**Steeb:** _I didn’t want to invade your privacy!_

**Bucky:** _You are a cinnamon roll._

**Bucky:** _Too pure for this world._

**Steeb:** _Wait._

**Steeb:** _Did you drop your book on purpose?_

**Steeb:** _Or do you just habitually write your phone number in all your books?_

**Bucky:** _Option A._

**Steeb:** _Oh._

*

 

                Steve takes a moment to breathe. Just breathe. Bucky is… Bucky deliberately dropped his book that day. A book he’d left his phone number in, just waiting for Steve to find it and text him. And then he’d waited all week whilst Steve had thought he was, what? Protecting Bucky’s privacy. And making it seem like he hated Bucky.

                Stupid, stupid, stupid.

                Bucky didn’t seem to mind though. Steve’s fingers hover the keyboard, but he doesn’t know what else to say. Bucky hasn’t replied to his ‘Oh.’. Mind you, it’s only been thirty seconds or so.

                Steve scrolls through his contacts and rings Sam. Sam will know what to do. He’s a therapist. This must fall within his remit.

                Sam picks up after a couple of rings.

                “Steve! Did he text you?” Sam asks cheerily. Steve can’t help the smile that stretches across his face.

                “Yes!” He squeaks out. Then: “He wrote me a story. Just like I asked.”

                “Holy shit. I’m putting you on speaker. Riley. Riley. Put the tennis ratchet down and come here. Okay, Steve, you’re on speaker. Tell Riley and me everything.”

                “Tennis ratchet?” Steve is momentarily distracted.

                “Never mind that, come on, spill.” Sam practically begs.

                “So, he wrote me this story about a boy who has superpowers. And then I texted him back. And we’ve been texting ever since. He wrote the fucking book. The one he dropped. The one he’d written his _phone number_ in, which I didn’t know because I didn’t read it.” Steve gushes.

                “Woah, slow down. That was his book?” Sam asks.

                “His phone number was in the book?” Riley asks.

                “Yes and yes.” Steve replies.

                “So you could have been texting him a week ago.” Riley points out.

                “Yes.” Steve confirms.

                “So he probably thought you, like, hated him or something.” Riley says. “Ow!”

                “Ignore Riley. So things are good now?” Sam asks.

                “I mean, I’m an artist, not an English Lit major, but reading his story… I really think he likes me.” Steve is smiling again, wide and toothy.

                “Stevie!” Both men on the other end of the phone screech.

                “What are you going to do now?” Sam asks, almost breathless with excitement. Steve can relate.

                “I don’t know? Should I keep texting him or call him or ask to meet him? I don’t know!” Steve whines. “Help me!” He pleads.

                “Okay, calm down. Remember your breathing. What do you _want_ to do?” Sam asks calmly.

                “I think – I think I want to meet him.” Steve breathes out his answer, barely there.

                “Stevie!” Riley screeches again. “Hold up, I’m calling Clint, he must know.”

                “Oh god.” Steve says, putting his head in his hands. He listens as Riley calls Clint and explains the situation.

                “Clint thinks you should meet him.” Riley says after a moment.

                “I hate to agree with Clint,” Sam begins, and then a muffled “Hey!” interrupts him. Obviously, Clint has been put on speaker phone too. “ _But_ ,” Sam continues, “in this case he’s right. You two need to meet, and see if you click in person. It’s easy to talk over texts, but it might not transfer to real life.”

                “The way those two look at each other?” Riley scoffs. “It’s gotta transfer man.”

                “Not necessarily.” Sam is the voice of reason. Steve knows he’s just trying to keep Steve from getting his hopes up.

                “So, you and Bucket need to go on a date.” Riley says, as though it’s obvious. Which it kinda is, in fairness.

                “Argh.” Steve says, panicking. “Also, his name is Bucky.”

                “But – the author of the book was called James.” Sam sounds confused.

                “This is so utterly unimportant right now.” Riley pipes up. Clint’s muffled voice agrees.

                “Okay, Steve, so you have to go on a date with Bucket. Sorry, Bucky.” Riley says.

                “Argh.” Steve repeats.

                “You’re fine. You’ll be fine. If you like him as much as you say you do, you’ll go on a date with him.” Sam says, the voice of reason as always.

                “I really do, Sam.” Steve says.

                “Then you’ll put your big boy boots on and go on a damn date with him.” Sam says.

                “I know, I know. It’s just scary. I haven’t dated anyone properly since Peggy.” Steve says.

                “Well, he’s definitely not Peggy.” Riley says.

                “You’ll be fine. Now get off the phone to us and text him.” Sam says.

                “Aw.” Clint’s muffled voice comes through.

                “Okay. I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna text him. Thanks Sam.” Steve says.

                “Hey - ” Riley’s protests at not being thanked are cut off as Steve hangs up.

 

*

 

                Bucky holds his phone close to his chest. He hasn’t responded to Steeb’s latest text yet. He’s still trying to absorb it.

                **Steeb:** _Would you like to go on a date with me? The usual place, 11am, next Saturday? I promise not to bring The Three Stooges with me. I’d really like to talk to you. For real, I mean._

Bucky breathes a shaky breath out. He really wants to talk to Steeb in real life. Texting him has been one thing, but actually talking to him? The writer in him yearns for Steeb’s words.

                Fingers shaking, he texts back.

                **Bucky:** _It’s a date._

                It’s definitely time for a celebratory Taylor Swift dance party. He cues up her ‘Red’ album on his iTunes and turns up the volume.

 

*

 

                Saturday brings with it two very nervous boys. Boys who have both raided their wardrobes and found them lacking. Boys who have changed clothes far too many times. One boy who has a new spot the size of a small country conveniently erupting from the side of his nose. The other boy having chewed his lip raw and bloody with nerves. They’re human disasters.

                Both arrive ten minutes early. There’s an awkward shuffle of nodding and gesturing, and then some kind of calm settles. They sit at Bucky’s usual table, sitting next to each other. They haven’t ordered, haven’t said a word. And then, Steve holds his hand out to Bucky.

                “Steeb, pleased to meet you.”

                And Bucky says, because it’s expected, and because the moment demands it:

                “Bucket, and likewise.”

                And then the conversation begins in earnest.

 

*

 

                _“Matthew looks at Leo, really looks. Leo is laid bare before him, clothed but as naked as the day he was born. And in that moment, Matthew knows, just as Leo knows. Their lips find one another’s, clumsy and imperfect, the taste of worn in mud and dirt clinging to them, as Leo takes the initiative and darts out his tongue to taste Matthew. In that moment, it’s everything. In this small corner of the universe, it is just them. Matthew’s hand finds Leo’s face, thumb stroking across that harsh, almost cruel cheekbone. Leo’s breath hitches, and then he leans in closer, his tongue searching Matthew’s mouth, sweeping against Matthew’s tongue as though this was what they were placed on the earth to do. And in that moment, Matthew couldn’t deny it. He was born to kiss Leo, born to worship at this alter. And maybe it’s sacrilege, maybe it’s a sin, so book him a place in Hell, because if this is blasphemy, he doesn’t want to be a saint. Leo is home, in more ways than Brooklyn ever was. Leo moans against his mouth, hands against Matthew’s chest, and Matthew knows his heart is beating too fast, and that Leo can feel it. His hand moves to Leo’s hair and he tangles his fingers in the golden locks. It feels decadent to do so. It’s all too perfect. Leo’s head drops and he’s sucking at Matthew’s neck. At that moment, Matthew defies every god who could ever tell him that this is wrong. This is coming home. This is love. It smells of blood and mud and gunpowder, but it is love. Matthew lets his head fall back, and Leo continues to suck kisses downwards, to the nook of Matthew’s neck. Matthew bites back a cry. It feels like a prayer.”_

*

 

                Bucky closes the Word document. He’ll begin editing it tomorrow. For now, he’s done. Matthew and Leo have many more hurdles to jump before they reach their happy ending. But he has faith that they will. As for him and Steve? A snuffle beside him makes him look over. He grins at the sight of Steve curled up under the blanket beside him on the sofa, his socked feet sticking out, his hair mussed. Bucky thinks they’re going to be okay too.

**Author's Note:**

> reuploaded! lost the file but found it in an abandoned dropbox account. 
> 
> i'm on tumblr at smallreprieves.tumblr.com - trying to get back into writing so feel free to drop any prompts you fancy. or just to say hi. 
> 
> thanks for reading. <3


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